Taquisara eBook

“Do you think that if I loved you, as I have
loved you—­as I did once—­I should
be so ready to give you up? Do you know me so
little? Do you think that I have no pride?”
asked Matilde Macomer, holding him at arm’s
length from her with her strong hands and throwing
back her head, while the lids half veiled her eyes,
and her face grew paler still.

The words that were so strange, spoken by such a woman,
fell from her lips with force and earnest conviction,
whether she truly believed that they had meaning for
her, or not. Then her voice changed and softened
again.

“But your friend—­yes, always, as
you must be mine—­that and nothing more.
We have said good bye to all the rest—­now
go, for I would rather be alone for a little while.
Go, Bosio—­please go!”

“As you will,” he answered.

Then he kissed her hand and looked into her face for
a moment, as though expecting that she should speak
again. But she only shook her head, and her hand
gave his no pressure. He kissed it again.
There were tears in his eyes when he left the room.

CHAPTER VII.

Love is not the privilege of the virtuous, nor the
exclusive right of the weak man and woman. The
earth brings forth the good thing and the bad thing
with equal strength to grow great and multiply side
by side, and it is not the privilege of the good thing
to live forever because it is good, nor is it the
condemnation of the bad to die before its time, perishing
in its own evil.

A moment after Bosio had left the room, Matilde rose
to her feet, very pale and unsteady, and locked the
door. Then, as though she were groping her way
in darkness, she got back to the sofa, and falling
upon it, buried her face in the cushions, and bit
them, lest she should cry out. She felt that
it would have been easier, after all, to have killed
Veronica Serra, than it had been to part with the one
thing she had loved in her life.

She had not loved him better than herself, perhaps,
since it was to save herself that she had driven him
away. But it had not been to save herself from
so small and insignificant a thing as death, though
she was vital and loved life for its own sake.
She had not realized, either, until it had been almost
done, how necessary it was. Yesterday she had
been more cynical. Her own wickedness was teaching
her the necessity of some good, and she saw now clearly
that Bosio was one degree less base than herself.
She believed that he would now be willing to marry
Veronica, but she understood that until now he would
not have done it—­unless she had freed him
from the galling remnant of his own conscience, and
had formally given him his liberty. To give him
that, in order that he might save her, she had torn
out her heart by the roots.